The Dying Detective
by waitingtobedistributed
Summary: Sherlock has succumbed to a strange, rare illness. John Watson investigates. Sherlolly fluff.


"Oh, thank heavens you're here John, I've been ever so worried about him." Mrs Hudson stood on the landing at the top of the stairs wringing her hands. "He hasn't been out of bed for days, won't eat, won't take cases. He looks so ill, John" she shook her head miserably, grief stricken, "he says he's dying."

The doctor gave her a hug, "You've nothing to worry about, Mrs H. He's being a drama queen again, that's all."

"I'm not so sure about that, dear," she gave him a pointed look, "he asked me to fetch a doctor, I've never known him to ask for one. You know how he hates them, ever since, well, you know," Mrs Hudson didn't even dare to say the words out loud, so she mouthed to John, _'the drugs.'_

Actually that was true, and John was worried now. He'd assumed Sherlock was playing sick to get his attention - now that baby Emily was here, John and Mary had far less time to spend chasing Sherlock all over London.

 _God bless Molly Hooper,_ he thought, she'd stepped in and had kept Sherlock entertained with experiments and body parts, brought him takeaway most nights to make sure he wasn't starving himself to death through stubborn self-neglect. She'd even managed to coax him along to the cinema, and let Sherlock drag her to the symphony. Rumour had it that Angelo was keeping a large supply of candles in stock, they had dinner there together so often.

So often in fact, that Mary and he had begun to hope the daft pair had finally pulled their heads out of their arses and admitted their feelings to themselves and each other.

But Molly had left five days ago for a conference in Glasgow, so John had expected the overgrown, curly haired, gun toting toddler was faking it, and that John would call to Baker Street only to find when he got there that Sherlock was already swishing around in his Belstaff, ready for one of his mad adventures.

 _And_ Mrs-not-your-housekeeper-Hudson was right, Sherlock had developed a hatred of having a doctor attend to him since his recent enforced stay in rehab.

John Watson then made the following deduction: Sherlock Holmes was _actually_ sick.

He gave the old woman a reassuring hug, "Don't worry Mrs Hudson, I'll take care of him."

"Alright," she frowned, "I'll make you a cuppa then while you go take a look."

John poked his head around the door to Sherlock's bedroom, finding the great detective himself curled up in the foetal position on his bed.

"Don't come any closer," Sherlock said weakly but with determination, "I've been on a case that may have exposed me to a highly contagious tropical disease."

John inwardly rolled his eyes at the melodrama.

"How the hell am I supposed to examine you from the doorway, Sherlock? Stop being such a baby and let me take a look at you." John crossed the room, set his bag down on the bedside table and took a seat at the edge of the bed.

Sherlock fell dramatically into his pillows and threw an arm across his face like a swooning Victorian maiden, "I'm dying John," he said.

"As I'm the only one here with a medical degree, you'll have to let me be the judge of that."

His friend gave him a sideways look of contempt, and John instantly knew that he'd be just fine.

The doctor pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead and then took his pulse.

Sick, but probably not dying: elevated heart rate, a (very) slight temperature, the ghostly pallor on his skin contradicted the faint flush on his cheeks.

"Symptoms?" John asked.

"I feel..hollow, lethargic. I'm hot and cold John, burning from the inside out. It's like there's an electric current running through my bones. My stomach is constantly swooping and diving, my gut aches, I have tightness in my chest and breathing makes me dizzy. I want to cry and laugh at the same time, I can't sleep but I can't get up, my mind is racing but I can't focus on a single thought. I-I- feel like I'm in withdrawal, but I haven't taken anything."

John did his best not to laugh - he actually felt sorry for the poor man - but _God_ it was hard not to. "Mate, when did this start?"

"Monday," Sherlock managed to croak out.

"The day after Molly left for Glasgow?" John raised an eyebrow and dipped his chin.

"Yes. Do you think..? You think I caught something from Molly? That she's ill too." He scrambled from his bed looking for his phone, Lazarus raised from the dead, " _John_ ," he almost cried, "you must go to her, make sure she's alright."

John rose and took the phone from a much recovered Sherlock. "You're an idiot," he said, "but the good news is that's not usually fatal. The only thing you've caught from Molly Hooper is feelings."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked confused.

Leading his friend back to sit on the bed, he scrubbed his face. "I can't believe I have to tell a 39 year old man this. But," John took a deep breath, "you're not ill, Sherlock, you're in love."

In the kitchen, Mrs Hudson bustled about getting the tea tray ready when she was almost knocked down by Sherlock ploughing through.

"No tea for me thanks," he shouted from the stairwell, "there's no time. My flight to Glasgow leaves in less than an hour."

Incredulous, she turned to a smiling John who was leaning against the door jamb.

"That was a miraculous recovery. Whatever was the matter with him?"

John grinned, taking the cup that the old lady offered, "Nothing that a consultation with a specialist in late onset puberty won't cure."

Curious, Mrs Hudson stated, "Never heard of one of them before. What do you call that type of doctor then, John?"

John sipped his tea and laughed, "In Sherlock's case? A pathologist, Mrs Hudson."


End file.
